


Head Over Feet

by Mejhiren



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: (Only Just), 1996-97, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - High School, Candymaker!Mellarks, F/M, Flood of '97, High School!Everlark, Migrant Workers, Migrant!Everdeens, Minnesotan!Peeta, Northern Minnesota, Slightly Autobiographical, Virgin!Everlark, mexican!katniss, small town
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-24 11:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6152965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mejhiren/pseuds/Mejhiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mexican!Katniss finds herself unexpectedly adored by the son of a local candymaker in a small Minnesota town. High school!Everlark circa 1996-97, first chapter originally posted as a drabble on Tumblr in 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Courtship by Chicken

**Author's Note:**

> Upon first visiting the Tumblr **katnissisoliveskinneddealwithit** , I read their intro about “the olive-skinned Seam class confined to the lower-paying mining jobs” and asked myself whether I had ever witnessed that sort of ethnically based social divide in my own, predominantly Upper Midwestern life. And I realized (with a start) that this was exactly the situation in the small Minnesota farming community where I grew up, where Hispanic migrant workers were a common sight in the sugar beet fields.
> 
> What follows is the resulting plot bunny, which dug in its claws and refused to go away. Set in my hometown circa 1996, it features a native Minnesotan Peeta (who may or may not be based on a couple of my former classmates) and a Mexican Katniss. I myself am not of Hispanic origin but I had a close high school friend who is and I spent afternoons and a couple of sleepovers at her house, upon which Katniss's home/home life may or may not be based, and I've also incorporated a few minor autobiographical details as appropriate.
> 
> Finally, special thanks to chrissytron, manniness, and pseudopenname808 for pushing for this fic to happen and to katnissisoliveskinneddealwithit for teasing my brain into birthing this plot bunny in the first place.
> 
> **Trigger Warning: Brief references to racial slurs.**

_You’ve already won me over in spite of me_  
_Don’t be alarmed if I fall head over feet_  
_Don’t be surprised if I love you for all that you are_  
_I couldn’t help it_  
_It’s all your fault_  
_~ Alanis Morissette, “Head Over Feet”_

 

_Northern Minnesota, October 1996_

I’ve had my eyes on the rotisserie chickens all night. There are just two left now, and they’re small. I’m watching them like a hawk, hoping beyond hope that if they’re still in the case when we close, I can take them home.

There are few enough perks to this job as it is. No employee discount – the cashier girl snorted with laughter when I asked – and at an hour till close, all the fried deli stuff gets bagged up and marked half-price for the hovering UMC students to snatch up. The wages aren’t great, but it’s better money than beets, and the work is less miserable, even with the harsh cleaners and hairnets and the constant smell of hot oil. But we all secretly hoped that a grocery job – especially one in this combined bakery/deli department – would mean extra food coming home. Outdated things, or damaged things, or ends and pieces too small to sell.

My family’s not starving, but we’re not doing great either. We’re quietly poor. Nearly everything we own – clothes, furniture, the rusty Ford pickup from Dad’s old boss – is second- or even third-hand. Well-worn but clean, despite appearances. Mom’s CNA job pays the bills but doesn’t allow for a very extensive food budget. We eat a lot of rice and beans and peanut butter, so standing around the deli case tonight has been downright excruciating. Evening shift doesn’t get a meal break, but I didn’t have a meal to eat anyway.

There’s just fifteen minutes to go now, and I’m mopping behind the counter, trying to pluck up the nerve to ask Cecelia about the chickens. She’s half-Mexican like me, but in a pretty sort of way. Where I’m short and thin, with Dad’s olive skin, coarse black hair, and gray eyes, Cecelia’s all curves and glossy brown hair, with smooth honey-colored skin and big dark eyes that literally sparkle. She’s been a good trainer – and nice to me on top of it – but I don’t want to embarrass myself on the first day with a stupid question. I’ve kept quiet for most of the night.

“You could start boxing up the doughnuts for day-olds, if you want,” she tells me, pulling an empty pan from the steam table. “Twelve to a box, any mix, and then I’ll show you how to print the labels. They go for half price.”

I eye the bakery case with its half-empty trays of long johns, bismarks, and bear claws and wonder how they all dropped half their value in a matter of seconds. They’re perfect still, warm and soft and sticky with icing. I start folding boxes and decide to bite the bullet.

“Hey, do we ever get to take home leftover things?” I blurt out. “Like, um…chicken?”

She rests her pan on the edge of the steam table and gives me a pitying look. If one more person tells me to go to the Food Bank, I’ll scream. I don’t want a handout – I just want stuff that would get thrown away otherwise.

“Sorry, Katniss,” she says, and she looks like she means it. “We save all the leftover chicken and cut it up to make our chicken salad. Even the fried chicken.”

My lip starts to quiver, and my eyes prickle with stupid angry tears. I was so sure no one would want those chickens, or I never would have asked. I feel like a complete idiot now. I’m about to ask if Cecelia would let me take the bones home for soup when she brightens and adds, “Not the wings, though. There’s not enough meat on those to bother, so one of the closers usually takes them home. You can have the wings if you want,” she offers.

My eyes do tear up then. Dad loved Chester Fried chicken wings more than anything in the world. “That’d be great,” I tell her, sniffing hard to hold in the tears. “Thank you.”

Mom will be home a little after 11:00. It’s Friday, so Prim will still be up. We’ll all squeeze onto the sagging sofa and eat cold chicken wings – it’ll be a feast. Cecelia glances at her watch, grins at me, and grabs a pair of tongs and a deli bag. “That one looks like a wing,” she says, winking, as she tosses a small chicken thigh into the bag, along with wing after wing.

I smile, my first genuine smile all night, and go back to my doughnuts. This might not be such a bad place after all.

“Oh – hey, Peeta!” Cecelia calls, her head popping up from the display case. “Are you looking for day-olds? We have a bunch of the bear claws your dad likes. Katniss can make you up a box.”

“That sounds awesome. Thanks!” a familiar voice replies.

I look up from my work to see Peeta Mellark approaching the counter with a full shopping basket in one hand, smiling at me. “Hey, Katniss,” he says cheerfully, as though we run into each other all the time. “How long have you been working here?”

Peeta’s pretty much the polar opposite of me. Where I’m a dark little loner whose major extracurricular activity is tutoring desperate college-bound seniors who just need to pass one more semester of Spanish, Peeta’s an athlete, president of our class, and the physical embodiment of the typical Minnesota boy. He’s about 5’9”, stocky and good-natured, with thick ash-blond hair, very blue eyes, and fair skin that turns pink in the sun. Scandinavian through and through, like my mom.

“Just started tonight,” I tell him.

Unlike the typical Minnesota boy, Peeta is missing half of his right leg. He lost it in a snowmobiling accident last winter, right before the state wrestling tournament. Peeta and his older brother Luka had both qualified at sectionals, and the whole town had gone wild. _Mellark Madness,_ Madge and I had joked. They even got their own pep rally. So many people were making plans to drive down to St. Paul and cheer them on that there was talk of cancelling school for a day or two.

The family was celebrating out at their cabin on Maple Lake when the wreck happened. No one was drinking, but Luka was known to be a little reckless. Nobody pointed fingers, of course, but everyone knew it was his fault. He walked away from the accident with little more than bumps and bruises and went on to win at state a few days later. He said in all the interviews that he won for Peeta, but it was a hollow victory.

“You don’t need to make up anything special,” Peeta assures me. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got, as long as there’s a couple of bear claws.”

Peeta’s back on the wrestling team this fall, with only a slight limp to show for his accident. If you didn’t see him in shorts, you’d never know he has a prosthesis. He’s as fit and strong as ever – and just as nice too.

“I haven’t made any yet,” I say, feeling a little stupid as I wave at my stack of freshly assembled boxes. “So, just tell me what you want.”

He stares at me for a few seconds, suddenly serious, and I wonder what I said wrong – and then he’s smiling again and peering into the case as though the moment never happened. “I’ll take three of those bear claws,” he says, “and three long johns, filled if you have ‘em.”

We have quite a few long johns left, most of them custard-filled, and after a bit of contemplation, Peeta settles on two chocolate (one with peanuts) and one maple, plus two old-fashioned sour cream doughnuts (Mom’s favorite, on the rare occasion that we can afford them), and three raspberry bismarks, covered with powdered sugar. “That’s eleven,” I tell him. “You get one more.”

“Which do _you_ like?” he asks. “What’s your favorite?”

I’ve only tried a couple of these in my life. It’s literally been years since the last one, but I’m too ashamed to tell Peeta that. I look at what’s left in the case and try to think what sounds best. There’s a bismark to the front with white icing and a little dot of bright yellow filling peeking out. Lemon-filled, I heard one of the bakery girls say earlier. I love lemon.

“The lemon bismark,” I tell Peeta. He doesn’t have many fruity ones as it is. It’ll make for a nice variety.

I slide back the tray to grab the lemon bismark with my square of parchment paper, but when I go to put it in the box with the other doughnuts, Peeta stops me. “That one’s for you,” he says, smiling. “You keep it, and label the box for a dozen.”

Peeta and I aren’t friends, but he’s definitely the nicest person I know. We’ve been in almost all of the same classes since I moved here in sixth grade, and he’s always gone out of his way to be nice to me, which is weird enough for a local boy, let alone a popular one. This is Norwegian Lutheran sugar beet country, where even the nicest people casually refer to migrant families as “spics.” Most of them honestly don’t mean anything by it and have no idea that it could possibly hurt.

Peeta’s different, though. He’s only ever called me “Katniss,” and I’ve never heard him make a single offensive comment about any of our Hispanic classmates, not even the ones who are perpetually in trouble. He asked me once what my heritage was – not where I was _from_ , like most people – and brought me a cupcake on my fifteenth birthday, with icing as rosy and bright as his blushing cheeks. I didn’t have much of a _quinceañera_ ; Mom’s family was Swedish and originally from around here, so she didn’t know what to do. She ended up rallying our neighbors together for a potluck and putting me in a frothy pink dress, borrowed from Gael’s mother, that would not have been out of place in _Gone with the Wind._ Peeta’s pink-frosted cupcake meant more than he could have imagined.

It’s nothing personal; he’s that nice to everyone, really. Peeta would help anybody with anything. When I miss a day of school, he offers me his notes the next day before I even ask. But sometimes he even outdoes himself.

This past May on my birthday, Mom gave me eight quarters from the laundry jar so I could get a chocolate chip cookie and a mini pizza from the “a la carte” line for my lunch as a special treat. Prim and I have been on free or reduced-price meals ever since Dad died, so a $2.00 school lunch was a big splurge. _You only turn sixteen once,_ Mom said with a sad chuckle. I certainly wasn’t getting a car.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve gone through the a la carte line like the “cool” kids, and that day I carried my little pizza and cookie like a treasure. I was barely ten feet past the checkout when Glimmer stuck out one high-heeled foot and tripped me.

I stumbled hard and the pizza box went flying, to the sound of raucous laughter and whoops from Glimmer’s table. My face burned as I hurriedly scrambled to my feet and went to retrieve my pizza. The box had popped open when it hit the ground and the pizza was face-down on the cafeteria floor. I quickly popped it back into the box, biting back tears, and wiped up the mess with my napkins. I could still eat it, really. It was no good complaining to any of the monitors. Glimmer was secure in her popularity: she was a Treasurette, a perfect leggy blonde; her dad was a lawyer and a member of the school board. She might get a brief scolding out of it, but it wouldn’t do _me_ an ounce of good. And I could hardly go back to the cashier, grumpy old Sae, and ask for a new pizza. She’d only say I’d paid for this one, and what happened after that was my own fault.

I reached an empty table at last and sat down, rubbing at my wet eyes. My cookie was in a sealed little bag, but it had been smashed pretty badly when I fell. I had planned to save half of it for Prim for the walk home, but it was mostly crumbs now, not to mention all I had left for my birthday lunch. I knew that Madge and Rue would join me soon, and Madge always offered me her dinner roll, but somehow the thought wasn’t very consoling.

“Hey.”

I looked up just as Peeta slid a new Prime Time Pizza box in front of me, exchanging it for the stained, squashed one I’d retrieved from the floor. “Sorry about that,” he said, as though somehow he had been at fault, then he set another – perfect – cookie next to my broken one, and a frosty-cold can of pop next to that. “It’s Dr Pepper, right?” he said.

Every Friday after school, I stop at the concession stand to buy a can of Dr Pepper and a bag of Gardetto’s Snack-ens to split with Prim on our walk home. Other than that, I never drink pop at school. But how in the world did _Peeta_ know that? “Um, yeah,” I told him, frowning in confusion. “But…”

But he wasn’t done with the surprises. “Happy birthday, Katniss,” he said quietly, and gave me a small smile before he walked back to his own table.

I peeked inside the pizza box as soon as Peeta walked away. He was a nice kid, of course, but he was popular too – losing his leg hadn’t hurt _that_ one bit. It could have been another prank – an empty box or moldy food; anything, really – but the pizza was _perfect_. Sausage and pepperoni and lots of gooey cheese on a golden pan crust.

My resolve lasted about thirty seconds. By the time Rue and Madge joined me five minutes later, I’d eaten half the pizza and drunk almost the entire can of pop. I saved Peeta’s cookie for Prim, though, and made do with the crumbs for my dessert.

Before I went back to class, I stopped back at the a la carte checkout to ask Sae about the food Peeta brought me. He was pretty persuasive, after all. If anybody could talk Sae into giving away replacement food, it was Peeta.

“Sae, where did Peeta get that pizza and cookie he gave me?” I asked.

“Where do you think?” she answered, cracking a gap-toothed grin – the first time I’d ever seen her smile. “Even Golden Boy doesn’t get freebies from my line,” she chortled. “Sounds like someone’s got an admirer.” Madge and Rue grinned at that, but both were smart enough not to volunteer any comments.

When end-of-day announcements came on a few hours later, I couldn’t think why I would have a message to pick up from the office. When I asked at the desk, Miss Trinket gave me a furtive smile and handed me a white box, about as long as an envelope, marked with the oval black-and-gold seal of Mellark’s Candy Store.

Mellark’s is the small but beloved family-owned candy store tucked between ever-changing storefronts on the main street of our tiny “historic downtown.” Peeta’s the fourth generation of Mellark to work behind the counter, but nobody’s quite sure if it’s him or one of his brothers who will take over when their dad retires. Luka’s got bigger and brighter plans, of course, but Marko, the oldest, is rumored to be moving back as soon as he has his degree.

I left the office, cheeks flaming, and cracked open the box to find something I loved even more than Mellark’s famous chocolate-covered potato chips: frosted jellies. Every year on Peeta’s birthday, his dad sends a few boxes of sweets to share with his classmates in homeroom. Somehow, I’ve been in Peeta’s homeroom ever since I came here in sixth grade, so I’ve gotten to try a lot of Mellark’s candies that I’d never be able to afford.  This past March he brought little squares of fruit-flavored gels, thinly coated with almond bark, and it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. “You like those, Katniss?” he’d asked, leaning heavily on his crutches. He was barely out of the hospital then and still very pale and thin, but he’d smiled at me like it was the best day of his life. “They’re frosted jellies.”

First Dr Pepper, then frosted jellies. I tried to remind myself that Peeta was just a really nice guy, but this was too much. No one buys replacement lunches for someone they’re not even friends with, let alone gives them a box of expensive by-the-pound candies on their birthday. It had to be some kind of cruel joke, tricking the shy, ugly Mexican girl into thinking people liked her.

I hid the jellies till I got home, then lied to Mom and Prim, saying they were from Miss Cardew, the Spanish student teacher. We each had one for supper with our _sopa de maiz_ , then we put the rest in the cupboard over the sink for another day. We made the box last a month, cutting every little square into three tiny pieces.

I pretended to write a thank-you letter to Miss Cardew. I probably should have written one to Peeta, but every time I thought about it, I felt hot and uncomfortable. I could barely look at him after that day, and I didn’t know why. He asked me about the jellies, of course, and I mumbled that _they were good, thank you_ – and then did everything in my power to avoid him. He didn’t push me to talk to him after that, but he almost seemed hurt.

Summer came blessedly soon, and I was happy to hide in the beet field, just another faceless “spic” with my hoe and my sun hat and long-sleeved chambray shirt. I never saw much of Peeta in the summer anyway. He was always busy, working for his dad and going to camps and workshops and things. He told me I looked “great” on the first day of school, and I thanked him half-heartedly, pretending it didn’t make something light up inside me. I’d gotten really brown over the summer, which always made me self-conscious, but I was wearing one of the new outfits I’d bought with my beet money, and Mom had braided my hair up around my head that day, so I secretly thought I looked nice too.

Tonight, of course, I look anything _but_ nice in my second-hand khakis, stiff blue uniform shirt, stained apron, and hairnet, and Peeta’s still telling me to take his lemon bismark. I try to tell myself that it’s nothing; he’s getting twelve practically fresh doughnuts for the price of six, so really, this one’s as good as free. But it doesn’t work. Peeta won’t take it back, but maybe Cecelia will split it with me so I feel less bad.

I close the box and hand it to him, and Cecelia comes over with the label for him. “There you go,” she chirps, sticking it on the bottom of the box. “Tell your dad I said hi, all right?”

“Will do,” he says, then, “Oh – almost forgot. Do you have any rotisserie chickens left?”

Any guilt I might have felt over taking his bismark is abruptly gone.

“Just two,” Cecelia answers, and flashes me a sympathetic look before gesturing at the front of the hot case.

Peeta peers in at the chickens in their plastic trays and frowns. “They’re pretty small,” he says pensively. “I’d better take them both.”

I decide then and there that Peeta Mellark is the greediest person I’ve ever met. I know the chickens aren’t mine and never will be, but I’ve spent the last several hours thinking of taking them home and have only just come to terms with the fact that our frugal managers are just making use of what they have – like I would – instead of throwing or giving it away. Selling them at the last minute – to always-nice Peeta Mellark, no less – breaks my heart.

Peeta shuffles the contents of his basket to make room for the chickens, then hefts it easily with one hand while balancing the doughnut box in the other. “Thanks a lot, you guys,” he says, and adds, with a small smile, “Congrats on the new job, Katniss.”

I don’t reply but turn back to the bakery case and begin angrily stuffing doughnuts into boxes at random. Not enough to damage them, but enough to make it clear that I’m not in the best of moods.

“Hey,” Cecelia says gently, touching my shoulder. “Why don’t you go ahead and clock out, Katniss. You’ve had a long day, and I can finish up here. I’ll have your wings ready when you get back.”

“Okay,” I croak. My throat is dry and a little sore, and for once a little sympathy doesn’t anger me. I toss my apron in the laundry basket and go back to the break room to clock out. I tug on Dad’s old Betaseed jacket and button it closed, double-checking that the truck keys are in my hip pocket. I was going to ask one of the produce stockers about bruised or moldy fruit – or even just check their trash cans for treasures – but I can’t bear it tonight.

I head back to the deli and find Cecelia chatting with a middle-aged woman over a partial box of day-olds. She grins when she sees me and quirks her head toward the kitchen. “Your stuff’s back there,” she says. “On the prep table.”

I duck around the counter and go back to the kitchen. There’s a large bag of wings and a little bakery bag with my bismark – both are initialed in black marker by Cecelia – and a plastic grocery bag with two small rotisserie chickens in it. I curse fluently under my breath and snatch up all the bags, hurrying out of the kitchen.

“Cecelia, Peeta forgot his chickens,” I say crossly, disregarding the customer in my impatience. “Do you know if he’s still here?”

She laughs delightedly. “They’re _yours_ , Katniss,” she says, shaking her head. “Peeta bought them for _you_. Two chickens _and_ a bismark,” she adds for the lady at the counter, who chuckles.

“Sounds like someone has an admirer,” the customer says.

I’m sure Cecelia’s mistaken, even if part of me is almost boneless with relief at the thought of taking home those chickens – at the thought of the wonderful meals we can make with them. We can have chicken enchiladas for Sunday dinner. I’m sure I can find some close-dated sour cream – or even plain yogurt would do – at the little grocery store downtown and get it for half-price. And then I can boil up the chicken bones and make a nice stock for Mom’s tortilla soup. She doesn’t make it much these days, since she taught me how, and I’ve been craving a big bowl ever since the frost two mornings ago.

 _No,_ I remind myself sternly, _this has to be a mistake._ A big joke, pranking Katniss on her first day of work. I peek into the bag, expecting to see something bad on the chickens – maybe Cecelia’s in on it too, and there are just bones in the trays – and then I see it. A bottle of Dr Pepper.

Peeta drinks Coke. It’s not a mistake, so it has to be a joke.

Fuming, I hurry out of the deli and bolt for the west doors. I was only in the break room for a minute or two, and Peeta had a bunch of stuff to pay for, so he must have dropped off the chickens just seconds before I got back.

I sprint through the automatic doors and out to the parking lot. Peeta ‘s teal Grand Prix is easy to spot, and he’s just putting his bags into the trunk.

I charge over to him, well and truly done with being shy. “What did you do _that_ for?” I demand. My face is so hot that it hurts, making me even madder.

Peeta smiles at me and closes the trunk. “You wanted them,” he says simply. “And she wouldn’t let you have them.”

“How could you know that?” I challenge. The idea that Peeta might _know_ – about me wanting the chickens, Cecelia telling me I couldn’t have them; any of it – makes everything a hundred times worse.

He blushes a little, though his face is very serious all of a sudden, like when he came to get doughnuts and I asked him what he wanted. “That wasn’t the first time I went past the deli tonight, Katniss,” he says quietly.

I force my angry mind to recall: we marked down the hot case items at 9:00 and had a rush of UMC kids grabbing the potato wedges and mozzarella sticks. That was when I first let myself believe that I might be able to have those chickens, and something in my mind is hinting at a head of curly fair hair disappearing around a corner at the edge of my field of vision, right around that time. Had Peeta been in the deli then? That was almost an hour ago. If so, what has he been _doing_ all this time? It couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes to fill his basket…

“I don’t want a handout,” I snap. “Anyway, Cecelia gave me the leftover wings so I don’t need these.” I try to hand him the bag with the chickens but he steps back a little, refusing to reach for it.

“Well, now you have _two_ extra meals,” he answers, so cheerfully that I want to shake him.

“Why does it even _matter_ to you, whether or not I get free chicken?” I retort.

There’s a moment of ringing silence, and I feel my words echo angrily back from the pavement. Peeta’s staring at me, his breath coming quickly, and I wonder if this is it; if I’ve finally pushed the nicest boy in the world past his breaking point. It’s no more than I expected, really. I never deserved his sweet words or little gifts anyway.

And then he steps forward, putting his hands on either side of my face, and presses his mouth against mine.

It takes several moments to register that I’m being kissed. _Kissed._ On the mouth. By Peeta Mellark. In the parking lot of Hugo’s, on my first day of work, with my hands full of chicken. I’m still wearing my hairnet.

His mouth is soft and warm and just the slightest bit wet, and my heart is beating a frenzy and I can’t breathe and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, if anything at all. I’ve never been kissed before, never even been in a situation where it was possible. I’m frozen in place, but Peeta’s not moving either, except for the soft little nudges of his lips against mine – _kisses,_ I remind myself, dazed. _Peeta Mellark is kissing me._

His mouth stills at last and draws back, and I feel like I’ve lost my anchor to the earth.

“ _That’s_ why,” he says quietly. His hands fall away from my face and I shiver. He gives me a shy smile. “Can I call you tomorrow?” he asks.

“Why?” I ask. My head is hazy. Peeta just kissed me – _a bunch of times,_ I think – and now he wants to call me. It occurs somewhere in the back of my mind that he doesn’t even have my number, and we’d have nothing to talk about anyway. 

He smiles at my question. “I miss you on the weekends,” he says.

“Okay,” I whisper, and somehow I can’t remember what I’ve just agreed to, but I feel oddly warm and light inside. I assure myself that it has nothing to do with the now blinding smile on Peeta’s face.

“Talk to you soon, then,” he says softly. He leans in again, this time to touch his lips to my cheek – _was that another kiss?_ – then, abruptly blushing, he gets into his car and drives away.

I wander the parking lot for five minutes before I find the pickup keys in my jacket pocket, then sit in the cab for another ten while I try to remember how to start the engine. I have no idea what just happened, but Peeta Mellark’s lips featured prominently in whatever it was, and I can’t get the feel of them out of my mind.

The chickens might have been a prank, but a popular boy doesn’t just kiss a reject girl. Not on a dare, not as a joke – _and not,_ whispers a strange voice in my head, _like_ that. His eyes were closed. His hands were on my face. He almost – _almost_ – seemed like he was enjoying it.

I grind the key in the ignition and curse, shaking my head to clear it. Two free chickens are enough excitement for one night. I’ve got a mom and sister to feed, and no time to waste on first kisses.

But I can’t resist brushing my fingertips over my mouth, as I tell myself that what I’m feeling isn’t wonder.


	2. Courtship by Chicken: Take Two (They're Small)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the super-corny chapter titles. If I ever get around to writing the next installment, I strongly suspect it'll be called "Courtship by Kitten." :)

I wake up to a crowded twin bed, a chorus of purrs and high-pitched mews, and tiny paws climbing up my chest. “No,” I groan without opening my eyes.

“ _Please?_ ” Prim wheedles.

I crack open one bleary eye to find myself nose-to-nose with a gray tabby kitten – Pepper, I think. My little sister is huddled beside me clutching three more kittens, and the other two are exploring the tattered quilt over my feet.

“No,” I say again, firmly this time. “We’ve been over this a hundred times.”

We were never supposed to have one cat, let alone a litter of them. It started the summer after we moved here. Dad was doing odd jobs for Plutarch Heavensbee – the farmer he and I hoed beets for – when this little yellow barn cat started following him around. She tagged at his heels and meowed while he ate – she’d even climb up the leg of his overalls and try to steal nibbles of the cold _tamales_ he brought for lunch. One afternoon she crawled through the broken back window of the pickup and rode home with him, and that was that. Prim wailed to keep her, and Plutarch had more barn cats than he could count. Not to mention, Dad had grown pretty attached to his little companion.

Dreamy Prim wanted to call her Buttercup after the girl in _The Princess Bride_ – one of our favorite family movies at the time – and unlikely a name as it was, it stuck. She was cute enough to begin with, but she’s a little ragged these days. The tips of her ears froze off a few winters back, giving her a slightly flat-topped appearance, and she lives off scraps and the little gray field mice that nest in our walls – which helps us all, really. It was a decent arrangement, really, until August, when she disappeared under Prim’s bed to have kittens in a shoebox.

Prim was ecstatic, of course. From the constant accompaniment of mews and purrs to the proximity of those six tiny balls of fur with their soft pink toes, it was a little girl’s dream come true. She made a nest for them beside her bed – a banana box tipped on its side, stuffed with rags and Prim’s favorite worn teddy bear – and has been accompanied at all times by at least one kitten ever since.

I held off as long as I could, but I knew we couldn’t keep the kittens. We could barely keep Buttercup as it was, and six more cats would eat us out of house and home. I told Prim this, even reminded her that cute little kittens grow up to be yowling, ornery things like her precious Buttercup, but she was inconsolable. “We’ll find them good homes,” I promised, which softened the blow but did nothing to cheer her up.

This, of course, is the day the kittens are leaving, and Prim is well aware. Everyone in this little farm town brings their extra kittens to a busy local store and sits outside the front doors with the box of them, trying to entice children and their weak-willed parents with the cuteness and the mewing and the “free to good home.” Hugo’s would’ve been an ideal spot with all their traffic, but not only do I work there now, I have awkward, blushing reasons to not want to be in that parking lot this morning. So I’ve settled on Pamida.

“You know better, _patita_ ,” I grumble, closing my eyes again as I hand her the kitten from my chest. “Get yourself dressed and I’ll make our special breakfast.”

“Special breakfast” is part of the deal – the thing that sealed it, really. Prim is still despondent about giving away the kittens, of course, but I’m trying to make the experience itself something fun.

I slip out of bed and pad down to the kitchen. Mom, Prim, and I ate the wings and Peeta’s bismark last night, all grins and giggles as we squeezed onto the couch and watched a scratchy old Bugs Bunny cartoon on one of Prim’s videos. I told them that the bismark was a treat for my first day of work – implying that it came from the management – and that I got the rotisserie chickens “reduced for quick sale.” I told them the truth about the wings, though, since I might get to bring more home sometime. The Dr Pepper I tucked inside a clean sock and hid under my bed for a special occasion. I suppose my first kiss is the most special occasion I’m ever likely to experience, but I’ve very nearly convinced myself that it never happened. Because, despite all the little hums and resonances in my body shouting the contrary, what I _think_ happened last night is entirely impossible.

I’ve gotten really good at lying to myself, as well as to my family. By the light of day, my story about where the food came from is much more plausible than the idea that Peeta Mellark bought the chickens for me, then kissed me when I tried to give them back.

I try to make a cooked breakfast every day for Prim’s sake. Usually it’s a potato cut into cubes and fried up with an egg or two – a plain but hearty start to the day – but today I crisp a tortilla in a little oil and warm up some applesauce. They call this an “apple grande” at Taco John’s, but it’s been “apple pie” – or a good quick snack – to us for years. While that’s going, I heat some of the _horchata_ I made earlier this week, expressly for this morning. Prim loves _horchata_ the way kids around here love hot chocolate, and it’s generally cheaper to make – although I always add a few scoops of powdered milk to the mix. It makes the drink richer, and Prim’s so scrawny to begin with. I worry she doesn’t get enough milk as it is.

When the _horchata_ is nice and hot, I pour it into Dad’s old thermos. This will probably be our lunch today, but I’m presenting it to Prim as a special treat. Cozy-warm rice and milk and cinnamon to sip at while we sit outside on a frosty October morning.

Prim comes downstairs at last, dressed for the day, her empty kitten-nest under one arm. She holds it up to show me: she’s scrawled “Halloween Kittens – FREE!” hopefully along one side of the box in Magic Marker, along with a drawing of a lopsided jack-o-lantern. “Good thinking,” I tell her, kissing the top of her head. “Come on, _patita_. Eat your breakfast and I’ll braid your hair.”

I top the now-crispy tortilla with warm applesauce, cinnamon, and sugar and, for good measure, crunch up some of Prim’s precious Red Hots and throw them on too. They add a little shredded cheddar cheese to this at Taco John’s, but we rarely have that sitting around our fridge.

I break the apple tortilla into rough quarters with a fork and take one back to my room to eat while I get dressed. October in Minnesota is gorgeous but very touchy. We’ve been here just five years and seen snow before Halloween in two of them. I settle on a grubby but presentable pair of jeans and a soft old red flannel shirt that Dad used to wear, almost nonstop, from September through April. The Betaseed jacket will be warm enough, I think, though I grab some extra hooded sweatshirts from the closet downstairs, plus a thin pink blanket that Dad scavenged from the hospital dumpster one night while waiting to pick up Mom. It wasn’t contaminated or anything; it was one of the standard-issue ones from the nursing home where Mom worked at the time, and someone had torn a hole in one corner. Otherwise, it was perfect – and Prim loves pink, so it was like Christmas for her.

Prim and I finish the tortilla with little nips of the _horchata_ – it seems to be putting her in a better mood – while I brush out and rebraid her honey-blonde hair. At first glance, you wouldn’t think my little sister was Mexican at all. She looks like a slightly darker version of Mom, whose Swedish heritage contributed blonde hair and blue eyes to our genetic mix. Prim’s fair-skinned like Mom but tans beautifully – she looks like some of the wealthy blonde girls at school who tan on purpose. She had far less difficulty than me, settling in when we moved – then again, she was just seven at the time, and younger kids tend to be colorblind when it comes to making friends – but I’ve wondered more than once how much easier her life would be if she didn’t have such a dark older sister hanging about.

With just a few sniffles, Prim helps me round up the kittens and we carry them, mewing like crazy, out to the pickup. Buttercup flicks her tail as we pass but, to my relief, doesn’t pursue us. I know full well that if she showed any distress whatsoever, Prim would stop then and there and cry herself into a stupor, and we’d _never_ be rid of those kittens. Prim climbs into the cab, wrapping the pink blanket around the box, and murmurs soothingly to its occupants.

It’s going to be a long day.

I drive out toward the beet plant, the thermos propped against my hip, and turn off at the frontage road for Pamida. It’s a little after 10:00 on a Saturday morning, so customers are trickling in. It’s crisp this morning, not cold, but we still make a cushion out of the extra sweatshirts to protect our backsides from the chill of the concrete curb where we’ll be sitting for the next several hours. Prim sets the kitten box next to her with its little marketing ploy prominently displayed and the blanket half draped over the top…and we wait.

Most people stop, at least to see or pet the kittens. It’s why this sort of giveaway arrangement works so well: people just can’t resist baby animals. But no one shows any real interest in taking one home, and I can’t really blame them. It’s October; not the best time of year to add a new kitten to a household, and these are clearly barn cats, not litter box trained or declawed or with shots or anything. They’d be great on a farm, but anywhere else they’d require all kinds of extra expenses. They’re free to take, but as I know too well, not free to keep.

Prim tries to engage everyone who comes by, and she’s very nearly as irresistible as the kittens, but every interaction results in a gentle but firm “no thank you.” As discouraging as it is for me, it’s not dampening her spirits too much, because she thinks whatever kittens are still in the box when we leave here will go home with us to stay. But I know better: if I bring those kittens home again, we’ll _never_ get rid of them. I have a mind to try Larson’s Super-Value downtown if we come up dry here or, worst case scenario, bring the kittens to the Humane Society. There’s a “surrender fee,” I think – which would probably cost just as much as keeping the kittens – but I heard they also have a little kennel where you can drop off animals anonymously, after hours and things, without a charge. I don’t want to do that – Prim might never, _ever_ forgive me – but we _cannot_ bring those kittens back home.

After about an hour I get my backpack out of the pickup and work on some Prob & Stats homework, both to get the assignment done and to take my mind off the kittens, and wonder whether Prim would have better luck if I went and sat in the cab. As it is, I’m hanging back so it looks like a pretty blonde girl – not a grubby Mexican teen – is giving away the kittens. I’m just the friend who happened to tag along. I’m small enough, especially sitting like this, that I can pass as a girl of Prim’s age.

When I finally let myself look at my watch, it’s almost noon. I fill the thermos lid with _horchata_ and pass it to Prim, hoping she still thinks of it as a treat and hasn’t realized it’s a substitute for lunch. We had a nice breakfast, but it wasn’t as sustaining as the egg and potato we usually share. I remind myself that we’ll have roast chicken when we get home. Mom said she’d clean it up and boil the bones and fat for stock while we’re gone, so we could even make tortilla soup tonight. Unbidden, I think of Peeta’s smile at the idea of me taking home those chickens and remember the feel of his mouth against mine. My chest burns at the memory.

And then I see it: a very familiar teal Grand Prix pulling into the parking lot, into the spot right next to our pickup. I glance over at Prim in a panic, but she barely knows who Peeta is. She doesn’t know what he drives or any reason why it should matter to me in the least. “What’s wrong?” she wonders.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. I turn my face back to my textbook but keep my eyes looking up. _It’s Pamida,_ I remind myself. _It’s Saturday. The entire town comes here at some point in the week. He could be here for anything – for fish food, for crying out loud! He has absolutely no idea that you’re here. He can’t possibly know that you’re here!_

Peeta gets out of his car, then goes around to the passenger side and takes out a large Hardee’s bag and a carrier with three drinks. I stare determinedly down at my notebook, my cheeks hot. _There’s no way he’s bringing that for you,_ I tell myself, over and over again. _No way at all. He bought you a bismark and two chickens just last night – and obviously, he’s embarrassed from kissing you. Remember how red-faced he was when he drove off? He won’t come near you again for weeks._

“Hi Katniss,” says Peeta’s voice from above me.

I raise my eyes just enough to see the toes of his shoes. He’s standing directly in front of me, less than three feet away. My entire face – and my chest, by the feel of it – flames with blushes as I stubbornly keep my head down.

“Hi!” Prim exclaims, abandoning whoever she’d been working her charm on and riveting her attention on Peeta. I don’t look up, nor do I need to: I can feel her attention shift. “Would you like a free kitten?” she asks.

Peeta chuckles softly.  I’d forgotten what a warm, beautiful laugh he has – _stop it, Katniss!_

“I was hoping for a free Katniss,” he teases. It’s a horrible joke, but Prim gives a squeak of surprise, and my face flares even hotter. “I brought you lunch,” he says gently, and I resign myself to looking up at him.

I don’t know if it’s because he kissed me last night and my senses are still all hazy, but Peeta looks _amazing_ this morning. He’s wearing his navy blue Pirate Wrestling hooded sweatshirt with dark jeans, and his fair hair is especially curly and tousled today. His cheeks are slightly flushed – from the cold or from having to face me again; I’m not sure – and I find my eyes dropping to his lips. They’re a little thin, I realize, but they felt so _soft…_

“You brought Katniss food?” Prim says, breaking my trance. She’s excited but puzzled, and we both look at Peeta for an explanation. I still haven’t even said hello.

“I brought you _both_ food,” he answers, smiling at her. “I called your house today, like I said I would –” he glances down at me, and the flush on his cheeks darkens – “and your mom said you were out here, trying to give away some kittens. Which means a lot of waiting around, and I thought you might be hungry.”

“Why did you call our house?” Prim asks, frowning. She doesn’t know a thing about last night – not about Peeta’s visit to the deli or his gifts and certainly not about his kisses – but she reads an awful lot of _YM_ and _Seventeen_ back issues at the library, and I have a horrible feeling she might be catching on.

 _Lie,_ I beg him silently, while at the same time genuinely wanting to hear his answer. He said _I miss you on the weekends_ when I asked, but anyone could see that was a load of nonsense.

“Because I like your sister,” he replies, smiling, as he crouches down to my level. “And I’d really like to have lunch with her.”

He says that to Prim, but in reality he’s talking to me. We’re about a foot apart now, me sitting on the curb and Peeta crouched in front of me, and he’s looking into my eyes – the same way he did after kissing me. I can barely breathe. I still haven’t said a word to him. I’m not sure I can.

Peeta seems to pick up on this somehow, because he turns to Prim and flashes her a crooked grin. “You have room for one more on this curb?” he asks.

With a sound that might be a whoop, Prim scoots over, moving the kitten box and her pile of sweatshirts a little ways down, and heaps up the pink blanket to make Peeta a cushion, tucked neatly between me and her. I glare at her, and she bats her eyelashes innocently. She hasn’t grasped everything that’s going on, but she’s rapidly filling in the blanks. Clearly, she’s determined that Peeta likes me and is milking the situation for all its worth. I resolve to strangle her as soon as we get home.

Peeta sits between us – he’s so close that his thigh brushes against mine, making me jump a little – and hands us each a 20oz drink from the carrier. “It’s Cherry Coke, right?” he says.

I stare at him in shock, but Prim squeals with delight. “Is this all for _me_?” she breathes, taking the cup in both hands.

“Of course,” Peeta laughs. “And there’s _food_ for you too, you know.” He reaches into the bag and takes out two chicken fillets – the foil wrap is unmistakable – then hands one to each of us. “I wasn’t sure on the fries,” he explains, pulling out two overflowing cartons, “so I got the regular kind and Crispy Curls.”

It’s not a flaw in his perception. He’s “not sure” because we never got fries before. Peeta Mellark has paid much closer attention to me than I ever could have dreamed.

“Oh, and save room,” he adds, grinning, as Prim takes the carton of French fries and gestures eagerly for me to take and try the Crispy Curls. “There’s an apple turnover for each of you too.”

My chin starts to tremble, and I bite my lip against the urge to cry.

When Dad was still alive, our family went to Hardee’s twice a month – on Dad’s paydays. We usually ate at one of the benches outside. People around here weren’t accustomed to seeing a Scandinavian-fair woman with a Mexican husband, let alone the kids that resulted from such a marriage, and even as a child, I felt their curiosity and condescension, sometimes even pity.  No one was ever outright mean to us, but there was an uncomfortable amount of staring.

Prim and I always shared a plain chicken fillet – Mom asked them to cut it in half for us – and a small Cherry Coke, because it was the closest thing Hardee’s had to Dr Pepper. Mom usually got a Hot Ham & Cheese and Dad a Regular Roast Beef – they were good “grown-up” sandwiches but cheap enough for our snug budget – and at the end of the meal we’d get two of their famous apple turnovers, fried golden-crisp and dusted with cinnamon-sugar. Dad and I always shared one and Mom and Prim split the other.

After Dad died, Prim and I tried to continue the tradition, but money was tighter still without Dad’s income, and it became a once-a-month activity – sometimes every other month. And Mom was in bad shape for a long time after Dad died – she’d still go to the hospital and lose herself in her work, but at home she was listless and unseeing – so she usually just handed me a five-dollar bill and told us to go without her. This meant a twenty-minute walk each way, at least until this past summer, when my beet money put me through Driver’s Ed and bought me a license. But Prim and I still go whenever we can – it feels like holding onto a little piece of Dad – and every single time, we split a small Cherry Coke, a plain chicken fillet, and one apple turnover.

I don’t need to open the wrapper to know that my sandwich – both our sandwiches – are plain. “What _is_ this?” I whisper.

“Lunch,” Peeta says cheerfully. “The first of many, I hope.”

“Did you bring barbecue sauce?” Prim asks him, completely unaware that I’m about to shatter. She loves Hardee’s barbecue sauce; it’s peppery and delicious and _free_ , as much as you want from the pump in the lobby. It’s like the fourth part of our shared meal – who needs fries when you have barbecue sauce to dip your chicken sandwich in?

“ _And_ ketchup,” Peeta tells her, gleefully pulling out a huge handful of sauce packets. Prim takes as many as she can hold and begins laying out her meal on the sandwich wrap beside her, tearing open barbecue packets and greedily gobbling up fries.

Peeta turns back to me then, and the merriment on his face is abruptly subdued. “What’s wrong, Katniss?” he murmurs.

I shake my head, looking down at the Cherry Coke and chicken fillet in my hands, and feel a hot tear slip down my cheek to strike the back of my wrist. “How can you possibly _know_ all this?” I choke.

He doesn’t ask what _all this_ is. “I pay attention,” he says softly, bringing a hand to my wet cheek.

His touch is so light and warm and gentle that I want to melt into it, to nestle my cheek against his palm. I remember that less than 24 hours ago, this kind boy had both hands on my face and his mouth pressed to mine. It’s somehow even more unbelievable now than when I recalled it alone in my bed last night. “But _why_?” I whisper.

“You _know_ why,” he whispers back, and blushes a little.

 _I really don’t,_ I want to tell him, but am half-afraid that it would only make him kiss me again. Half-afraid, and half-hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I speak no Spanish whatsoever and searched long and hard for _patita_. If I've used it incorrectly or it doesn't mean what I think it does, please let me know.


	3. Courtship by Kitten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is minimally edited and surely too corny to share. :/ The past few weeks have been especially terrible for me and in a low moment I thought of the lightest, silliest, most squeaky-clean-innocent story in my repertoire and got a strange blip of inspiration.

“Peeta, would you like some _horchata_?” Prim asks, unscrewing the Thermos lid. We polished off everything but the turnovers in an embarrassingly short amount of time and she’s – correctly – surmised that the creamy drink would combine perfectly with warm cinnamon apples in a cinnamon-and-sugar-dusted crust.

“No,” I answer hastily on his behalf. We only have the Thermos lid for a cup, and Prim and I have been drinking from that all morning. “I don’t think Peeta likes _horchata_ ,” I tell her.

“Are you kidding?” he laughs, a little aghast. “Who helped you make it for the Spanish II Christmas party last year?” I blush hotly, recalling it all at once, and he adds, “I tried to make some for my family over break, but it wasn’t half as delicious. I think _you_ were the magic ingredient,” he murmurs, and I blush hotter still.

“So yes, I’d love some _horchata_ ,” he tells Prim, “if there’s enough to go around, I mean. I want to make sure you ladies get all you want.”

“We just ate our weight in chicken, fries, and pop,” I interject dryly. “I think we’ll be okay.”

“Katniss, be nice!” Prim hisses across Peeta in a clear stage whisper. “Peeta brought us this huge, wonderful meal and you’ve been snapping at him ever since – when you’ve managed to say two words to him, of course.”

“It’s okay,” he assures us both. “I know Katniss likes her space and I crashed your lunch break, after all.”

“You _brightened_ our lunch break,” Prim says stubbornly. “And I have a sneaking suspicion that the _horchata_ was going to be our entire meal –” I look up at her in surprise and she pulls a face at me – “so if it hadn’t been for you we wouldn’t even have _had_ lunch till we got home.”

“We’re not that desperate,” I tell him quickly, a half-lie. “We don’t have money for takeout and things like that but I would’ve gone in and got some crackers or a Snickers bar to share.”

“That’s still not much of a lunch,” he says with a concerned frown. “What’s for supper?”

“Chicken tortilla soup!” Prim trills. “Or maybe enchiladas. Katniss got a great deal on some rotisserie chickens at work yesterday, so there’s plenty to go around. You should come over.”

I consider wringing her neck, even as I hide my scalding face in my hands. The appalling invitation aside, now Peeta knows exactly how much those chickens meant to us.

“Are you making the soup, Katniss?” he wonders softly. “I love your tortilla soup.”

I scowl up at him, intending to retort that he’s never even tasted my soup, but at the expression in his eyes I realize that he has, and _when_ , and my heart lurches at the memory.

Peeta and I have never been friends, but somehow his accident still shattered me. When I heard the news I snuck off to the girls’ bathroom to cry, away from the openly sobbing popular kids, and hold my crumbling heart together, and when I could finally breathe again, I tried to think of something I could do for Peeta. I didn’t have money for flowers or a get-well balloon, for all the good those silly gifts do, but I so badly needed to do _something_ for him.

I remembered that we had about half a cup of cold chicken in the fridge at home, left over from our small roast chicken the night before, and realized I could give him a small portion of comfort in a bowl of homemade tortilla soup. I knew we had all the ingredients for a tiny kettle’s worth, minus the sour cream, and I sprinted down to Happy Joe’s for that after school, hoping a quarter would buy one of the squeeze-packets they serve with their taco pizza and almost bursting into tears when the manager let me have it for free.

They’d sent Peeta to Grand Forks for the surgery, and a twenty-some-mile drive just to visit someone who wasn’t even a friend was something I couldn’t begin to imagine how to justify, let alone pay for. So I hid the soup at the back of the fridge and buried my tearful frustration in my pillow, and when they transferred him to Riverview two days later, I skipped sixth and seventh period so I could drive Mom to work. I reheated the soup while she was putting on her uniform and hid it under the seat in the pickup, and once she had disappeared through the nursing home doors, I drove over to the hospital’s main entrance, went inside and got directions to Peeta’s room.

He was asleep, just as I’d hoped, and surrounded by get-well balloons and costly bouquets of flowers, just as I’d expected, but he was pale and shivering beneath the thin hospital blanket and I wondered this wing had a warmer, like the nursing home, and if I might sneak him an extra blanket from there.

I set the dish of soup on his table-cart, with the sour cream packet and a Dixie cup of fried tortilla crumbles on top, and sat silently beside him for several minutes, my eyes streaming at the bruises on his face and the lump of bandages that sealed off his strong right leg, just below the knee. I wanted to crawl beneath those thin covers and hug the life back into him and I never wanted him to know I was here at all, and every shuddering breath hurt so badly.

I brushed the limp curls back from his forehead and pressed a kiss there; a steady, soothing kiss, like the ones Mom used to give us before Dad died, when we were sad or scared or hurt, and almost leapt out of my skin when he stirred a little in response. I slipped out of the room as quickly and quietly as I could and bypassed the elevator in my haste, barreling down the stairs to the ground floor.

I cried again when I got out to the pickup, and all the way home too.

“How did you know it was from me?” I whisper, staring down at the pavement.

“How could I not?” he answers gently, brushing my kneecap with his fingers. “All these noisy visitors and ridiculous get-well presents and then suddenly, silently, a perfect little bowl of homemade chicken tortilla soup. It was the first thing I was able to keep down with all the meds and the best thing I’d ever tasted in my life.”

“I gave you something else too,” I croak, and his breath catches in a gasp.

“I was so sure that was a dream,” he whispers. “That…that _you_ were a dream. I thought your mom must have dropped off the soup when she came to work and –”

“Oh, she’s liked you a lot longer than that,” Prim breaks in with jarring nonchalance. “She just didn’t realize it before your accident, and afterward she hid it with all her might. Did she kiss you?” she wonders.

I raise my head with a furious glower, intent on throttling my sister for this sudden, vocal burst of perception, to find Peeta blushing like a sunset from ear to ear, his eyes wide and so hopeful it makes my heart ache. “I never dreamt that in a million years,” he breathes. “I thought – _hoped_ – that maybe you thought I was nice, or-or maybe we could be friends someday –”

“I’m never speaking to you again!” I inform my sister across this radiant, stupidly happy boy. “And as for _you_!” I begin at Peeta.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re angry,” he says dreamily. “You look like a thunder goddess or a tiny Spanish queen.”

“A little _infanta_ ,” Prim chimes in merrily. “ _Off with her head!_ ”

“Oh, leave me alone, the both of you!” I storm and get to my feet, painfully aware that my face must be purple by now. “I’ll come back when it’s time to drive you home,” I tell my sister – and blindly, stupidly go into the store.

I have less than a dollar in my pocket at present so the best I can do is browse for a couple of hours before finally buying the promised Snickers bar, which would be suspicious by anyone’s standards, but before I can disappear into the greeting cards, the automatic door opens again to admit a flushed, breathless Peeta. “Before you attack me,” he begins, holding up his hands in surrender, “I won’t bring up any of that ever again unless you say it’s okay. But I have an idea that might make both of our lives better.”

“We get married?” I suggest snidely, and his mouth drops open.

“Absolutely, if you want,” he replies, barely skipping a beat, and something in his eyes tells me he isn’t kidding. “But I meant something a little more immediate: you need to find homes for those kittens and I want to go out with you so badly I almost can’t breathe.

“Please, I know it’s weird,” he says, a little desperately, before I can object. “Just hear me out. I don’t expect a date or anything; I just want to spend some more time with you, and the only way your sister is going home without those kittens is if she brings me home instead.”

“She said that, didn’t she?” I reply, and he grins.

“Yes, but I may have encouraged her a little,” he confesses, with very little shame. “So here’s my idea: if I can find homes for all those kittens in an hour, I’ll go home with you two and even help make supper. You wouldn’t have to be alone with me for a minute of it.”

“We’ve been trying for two hours and haven’t found a taker for a single kitten,” I point out. “What makes you think you can move all six kittens in an hour?”

“I have marketing skills,” he says mischievously. “If I fail, I take immediate and permanent responsibility for any kittens left over when the hour is up and I’ll take you out for dinner at Northland tonight: appetizers, dessert, the whole nine yards. Either way, we both win.”

“Either way, I spend the evening with you,” I observe, and he blushes brightly.

“Well, yes,” he admits, “but then the kittens are no longer your responsibility – heck, I’ll keep them all myself if it comes down to that – and you get a free meal out of the deal. I mean – I know you already have the chicken for your soup,” he adds quickly, “but I’ll buy the rest of the ingredients; sour cream and tomatoes and –”

“You gave me the chickens,” I remind him. “So I think we can safely say you provided the entire soup.”

“Oh, _please_ say yes, Katniss,” he pleads, taking a half-step toward me. “My head was spinning all night and seeing you here, having lunch together, and then finding out that kiss in the hospital wasn’t a dream…” He trails off with a little moan. “I’ll leave right now if you want and straighten Prim out for good measure,” he promises. “But if there’s even half a chance that you might like me a little, even just as a friend, could you let me help you? Friends help each other – and sometimes they have supper afterwards to boot,” he adds with a bashful smile.

I regard him with narrowed eyes. “I’m not dressing up for Northland,” I warn, and he beams.

“We’re staying in with your family and making chicken tortilla soup tonight,” he says confidently. “I don’t want to scare you off too soon with a sit-down Saturday night dinner. But I’ll pick you up after church tomorrow and take you to Northland for the breakfast buffet, if you want.”

He’s so radiantly, stupidly happy that I want to slug him and hug him and bury my face in his sweatshirt all at once. “I’ll agree to soup at home,” I concede, “but I want any alternative plans left open for negotiation.”

“Absolutely,” he assures me. “Do you want to help with my marketing scheme or be surprised?”

I frown, suddenly realizing that he probably means to buy something to help promote the kittens, and shake my head. “You can’t spend money on me, Peeta,” I protest. “Let alone on kittens we’re giving away.”

“It’s a tiny investment with a great return,” he replies cheerfully. “I’ll save you tons of money on cat food, which means you won’t have to work as much, which means you’ll have more free time to spend with _meeeee_!”

I blush so fiercely my eyes burn. “And what if I want to spend all this hard-earned free time alone?” I wonder, and he grins, undeterred.

“Then I’ll sit on your roof like _Señor_ Don Gato and yowl love songs to my beautiful little black cat,” he says. “I’d be perfectly happy either way.”

“Well, _I_ wouldn’t,” I fume, stubbornly telling myself that nothing about this image is adorable in any way. “You’ve taken a beating this year as it is, and you’d break more than your little solar plexus if I had to come up there.”

“You _like_ my little solar plexus,” he realizes with a slow smile, and I seize his arm and drag him off into the store.

“Not one bit,” I insist. “I’m just tired of making trips to the hospital to bring you soup and kisses. And anyway, I’m not sure how they’d put a cast on that –”

Without warning he turns us down an aisle and makes a beeline for the Ziploc bags. “You are _not_ individually packaging the kittens and sneaking them into people’s shopping bags like free samples!” I exclaim in horror.

“Hey, if you poked airholes in the bags and put in some cotton bedding, you’d have the germ of an idea,” he replies, very clearly in jest, as he picks up a box of quart-size bags. “But my idea is much kinder on both ends. I like you to bits, Katniss; how could you believe I wouldn’t treat your kittens like little treasures?”

“They’re Prim’s kittens,” I say, turning away from his adoration. “And I know you’d never dream of doing something so cruel.”

“Well, that’s half the battle right there,” he decides. “At least you’ve realized I’m a nice guy.”

“You’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met,” I reply to the shelf. “The nicest _person_ , really. You used your lunch money to make copies of the Chemistry notes for me when I had the flu.”

“That’s because I’m in love with you,” he says simply. “I mean, a nice guy would’ve just lent you his notes –”

I turn around so fast my neck twinges, my eyes wide as saucers and my heart beating a hundred miles an hour against my eardrums. “What did you say?” I rasp.

“I didn’t mean to spring it on you like this,” he soothes, holding up his hands in a steady, placating gesture. “Though to be honest, I thought the whole world knew. I’m crazy about you, Katniss,” he says, a little ruefully, “but it’s totally okay if you don’t feel the same, or…or can’t. I just want to be with you, as your friend or…or your boyfriend or…however you’ll have me.”

“ _Boyfriend_?” I croak, like it’s a word in a long-dead language.

“Absolutely, if you want me,” he replies seriously, then adds, in a lighter tone, at my blank look, “You know: roses on your birthday, paying for your meals, Friday nights at the movies, a boy in a tux to escort you to prom…”

I shake my head, dazed by this sudden influx of impossible possibilities. Last night, kisses and chickens and Dr Pepper were the closest thing to heaven I’d ever experienced and now this earnest, beautiful boy is talking about treating me like a real-life princess, complete with flowers and dancing and feasts. I know this is the sort of thing popular girls enjoy through the majority of their high school years, minus little hiccups of space in-between boyfriends, but to me such a life would be a literal fairy tale.

I’m inclined to accept his impossible offer just for the free meals.

“It can be about the food, if you want,” he continues gently, as though I spoke those words aloud. “I know your family doesn’t have much – I saw how you looked at those chickens last night – and I’d hate for you to think you had to go out with me just for some extra meals. I’ll buy you all the dinners – and lunches, and breakfast buffets – that you want and call it friendship, _happily_. I can be subtle,” he adds quietly. “I wouldn’t make it look like we were a couple, so there wouldn’t be gossip or rumors or anything like that.”

“I’m sure your girlfriend would mind eventually,” I croak, and to my surprise, he laughs.

“Oh Katniss, don’t you see?” he wonders. “ _You_ are the only girl I want – the only girl I’ve _ever_ wanted. I’ve never had a girlfriend because I’ve had a crush on you since you came to Crookston in sixth grade.”

I gape at him, incredulous, and he presses on, “If you don’t like me like that, I suppose I might find someone else someday, years down the road, but I’m in no rush and I certainly have no interest in looking. I’d rather be your friend than any other girl’s boyfriend _any_ day.”

“You can’t go through high school without a girlfriend, Peeta,” I protest over the euphoric clamor of my heart. “What about prom and homecoming and –”

“There’s no law saying you can’t go to a dance with a friend,” he replies cheerfully, “or on your own, for that matter. Marko’s about to finish college and he’s _never_ had a girlfriend,” he says. “Just a stray handful of dates, and Luka just got together with his running buddy in March – though to be fair, he was secretly crazy about her for years,” he admits with a chuckle. “She’s not exactly the romantic type, but there was never anyone else for him.”

“Does this serious pining thing run in your family?” I ask in disbelief. I don’t remember anything about the oldest Mellark brother but Luka is a state wrestling champ and was just crowned Homecoming King a few weeks ago – over Finnick O’Dair, no less. He’s athletic, attractive, and the very definition of _popular_.

“Absolutely,” he replies with a grin. “Grandma Lydda talked about it every Christmas while we made sugar cookies – I think I was five the first time she mentioned it. _‘Tis the way of our men,_ she said, _to fall deeply and fast, and give their hearts away in childhood._ I used to wonder if I’d missed something, not spending grade school making cow-eyes at some oblivious little girl, and then you walked into sixth grade Music and sang ‘Red River Valley’ like you’d sung it every day of your life, and that was that.” He sighs deeply at the memory. “You were like a tiny, perfect red-winged blackbird, trilling your heart out, with your black braids tied off with pretty red ribbons.”

I gape at him, wondering how he manages to astonish me more with each new revelation. I _did_ sing “Red River Valley” on a regular basis, long before moving to the Red River Valley of Minnesota, because Dad loved to sing it to Mom, his own Red River Valley girl. And until this moment I didn’t even remember wearing ribbons in my braids on the first day of sixth grade.

And is Peeta suggesting that he fell for me because of my _voice_?

“You could sing for me sometime, if you wanted,” he says shyly. “Not a love song, of course; any song you like.”

“ _Why?_ ” I ask him, thoroughly confused, and he tugs me around the endcap to peck my mouth with a furtive kiss, making me squeak in surprise.

“I’m so sorry!” he says, blushing like an elated fool. “Sometimes that’s the only real answer to your ‘Why?’, Katniss. I won’t do it anymore, though,” he promises firmly. “Positively no more kisses ever again, until – _unless!_ – you say so.”

“Well, I _did_ kiss you first,” I croak. “And you were defenseless, asleep, and all but incapacitated. As far as taking advantage goes, I’ve got a lot more to apologize for.”

“Don’t you _dare_ apologize for that, Katniss Everdeen,” he says fiercely, but in a passionate manner, not an angry one. “That little dream-kiss carried me through my worst days of PT. I’d think about you all through my exercises, about getting strong and steady on my feet so I could take care of you someday, and when my session was done I’d sit in a quiet place and think about homemade tortilla soup and try to remember the feel of your little songbird mouth on my forehead.”

“You _like_ me,” I whisper, really and truly processing this for the first time, and Peeta pulls me to him in a powerful hug. He's warm and solid and _wonderful_ , and I can't help melting a little against his chest.

“ _Yes_ , Chicken Little,” he chuckles, nuzzling his cheek against my hair. “I like you. A lot. _So_ very much. Maybe we should just stick to that for awhile,” he suggests. “I’m a little afraid you’ll run for the hills if the rest starts sinking in.”

He draws back and brushes my cheek with the hand not full of Ziploc bags. “Why don’t you go back out with your sister, little bird?” he offers tenderly. “I’ll finish up in here and –”

“Because,” I answer with all the authority of an imperious _infanta_ , “if I go back out there I’ll have to talk to Prim about this, and _I_ don’t even understand what’s going on. And she’s going to ask a million questions –”

“Would you rather I answer those?” he wonders, playfully waggling his brows. “Because if I do, I make no guarantee that words like _adore_ , _in love_ , and _want her to be my girlfriend_ won’t make appearances.”

I seethe at him but I know he’s right. Ever since he kissed me last night, he hasn’t been able to stop saying the most ridiculously sweet things to me, and Prim would gobble up every last morsel like a greedy piranha. At least if I talk to her first I can buffer things a bit, like I did last night with the chickens and the bismark.

“Okay,” I grumble, and he grins.

“I’ll make all of this up to you,” he says, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Oh Katniss, you have no _idea_ how much I’m looking forward to making things up to you.”

For some reason this makes me blush furiously, and in a fashion that makes no promise of fading anytime soon.

The automatic door has barely opened in front of me when a delighted shriek rings out and Prim scrambles up to meet me, the box of kittens forgotten. “You have a _boyfriend_!” she squeals, seizing my hands and bouncing delightedly on her toes. “I _knew_ you two were together last night! Did you go out after work?”

“Did you _see_ me after work?” I scoff. “Hairnet, khakis, stinking like the fryer –”

“You were glowing like a Christmas tree!” she counters, not put off in the least. “Let me guess: he came by last night to ask you to be his girlfriend and you were going to give him your answer today, but when he called you weren’t home so he came out here, and he followed you into the store because he was dying to talk to you alone and get your answer!” she concludes, triumphantly breathless. “You said _yes,_ I know it; it’s written all over your face!” she gushes. “Do Madge and Rue know?”

“Slow down, _niñita_ ,” I say, freeing my hands to take hold of her shoulders and gently pressing her feet to the ground. “Peeta was at Hugo’s last night getting groceries and when he saw me in the deli, he said hi and congrats on the new job.”

“And then bought you a ton of food,” she supplies, grinning. “He’s totally meant for you, Katniss: he knows the way to your heart is through your stomach.”

“Those wings were deli waste,” I inform her sternly. “Cecilia signed off on them.”

“But the rest was from him – I _knew_ it!” she crows, deciding this is confirmation enough. “He bought you whole chickens, Katniss; he clearly _adores_ you! Why the heck didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it-it’s not like that,” I stammer, reminded in a painful rush of what a terrible liar I am. “He likes me, I guess, but we’re not dating or boyfriend-and-girlfriend or anything. He kissed me in the parking lot but –”

“He _kissed_ you?” she squeals. “In public? On the cheek or on the lips?”

“Oh, for the love –!” I drag her flailing form back to the curb and push her down beside the kitten box. “You get three questions,” I inform her, “and then I’m not saying another word about it till we get home.”

“With Peeta?” she reminds me, grinning. “I’d love to hear how you explain what happened with him sitting across the table.”

“Three questions,” I repeat. “And I’ll answer any others you have _after_ Peeta goes home.”

“What if he stays _forever_?” she teases. “What if he proposes to you tonight and you get married right away?”

“Then you’ll be my maid of honor, duh,” I reply, ruffling her braid in the manner that always annoys her. “What are your other two questions?”

“Not fair!” she cries, but rebounds almost instantly: “Okay, cheek or lips? That’s really the most important question.”

“Well, both,” I blurt with a flood of heat to my face and throat, and Prim shrieks with glee.

“Oh my gosh, Katniss!” she says. “This is so huge! Did he ask you to be his girlfriend?”

I pause for several moments to root about in my brain for the answer. I’ve carefully filed away all the sweet things Peeta’s said to me but not truly processed any of them yet, and I’m both surprised and strangely saddened by the realization. “No,” I reply at last. “He said he’d like to be my boyfriend, or just my friend if I’d rather. He talked about not wanting any other girlfriend because he had a crush on me since sixth grade –”

“Oh good grief, give the boy a break!” she laughs, just as I recall Peeta’s playful warning about _adore_ , _in love_ , and _want her to be my girlfriend_ coming up in conversation if I made him answer Prim’s questions. “It sounds like he did everything but spell out the question, and that’s probably because he didn’t want to scare you off,” she explains. “If he wants to be your boyfriend that would make you his girlfriend. It’s simple math, Katniss.”

“Well, not to me,” I reply and plop down on the other side of the kitten box. “I can’t see why either part of that – being my boyfriend or having me for a girlfriend – would appeal to Peeta at all. No wonder he didn’t ask me.”

“She has no idea, does she?” Peeta says, walking up to us with an arm curled around a five-pound bag of Kitten Chow and a plastic bag dangling from his other hand. “The effect she can have,” he adds, almost sadly. He’s talking to Prim, of course, but his eyes are on me.

“She really doesn’t,” Prim replies. “I really should have warned you about that.”

He sets his purchases on the curb and comes over to crouch in front of me, taking my hands in his as I stare stubbornly down at the pavement. “I don’t want an answer now,” he says. “But I can’t bear it that you didn’t realize I’ve wanted this every second of my life since I met you. Katniss Laurel Everdeen, will you be my girlfriend?”

My heart stumbles in its paces and Prim screams through her hands like a pageant winner.

I gaze up at Peeta, at his downy yellow curls, flushed cheeks and bright hopeful eyes, and something crumbles deep in my chest, pleasant and painful all at once. “Please don’t answer now,” he urges. “If you say no I’m honor-bound to walk away and leave you alone for good, and if you say yes I’ll never know if it was real or if you just said it because you felt sorry for me, making a fool of myself in front of God and everybody.”

He’s so incredibly _good_ I want to cry. “I like you too,” I whisper, and he laughs with sheer joy.

“Oh, Katniss,” he sighs, “you are more adorable than I ever dreamed.” He lifts each of my small hands to his lips for a quick kiss before releasing them and reaching for his bag, which Prim eagerly hands over. “Before you get too excited, there’s no ring in here,” he warns her, and winks. “Not just yet, anyway.

“I was torn,” he says, reaching into the bag and pulling out a Snickers bar and a Handi-Snack with crackers and cheese. “Because I couldn’t _not_ buy this for you, for obvious reasons,” he explains, “but my family owns a hand-crafted candy store, where for the same price I could get you a far superior piece of hand-crafted chocolate, albeit a tiny bit smaller.”

I catch his face in my hands and kiss the tip of his nose before I can stop myself. “Why are you so sweet?” I keen.

“You _know_ why,” he says softly, with a hopeful smile. “And as it happened, I had a solution in my pocket all along.”

He hands me the Snickers and crackers, then rummages in the pouch-pocket of his sweatshirt and brings out a small brown paper bag – unmarked, but unmistakable. “This was a bit of a gamble, I admit,” he says, proffering the bag, “but I thought you might like these a little more than the other options.”

I set the precious snacks on my knees to take the bag and almost burst into tears at the contents: three perfect frosted jellies, wrapped carefully in a waxed paper square.

“I never thanked you,” I whisper brokenly. “Not properly, not like I should have –”

“You didn’t have to, sweetheart,” he soothes. “I shouldn’t have left them for you in the office like that, but I couldn’t find the nerve to give them to you outright. Excruciating as it is to pine after someone for five long years,” he says with endearing self-deprecation, “it’s a hundred times easier than – and preferable to – asking her out and having all your hopes dashed to dust.”

“Mom, look: _kitties!_ ” cries a little boy’s voice nearby. “Can we go pet them?”

Peeta flashes me a million-dollar grin. “Set your watch, Chicken Little,” he says. “I’m about to give away six kittens in an hour, and when they’re gone I’m taking you on a tortilla soup shopping spree, and after that I’m going to take you home and watch you make your magical healing soup and tell you how amazing you are the entire time.”

Before I can even think about replying he’s on his feet, jogging up to the child and his mother. “We have six adorable kitties,” he tells them, “all different colors, free to good home.”

The woman waves her son ahead and he barrels forward to scoop up a kitten in each hand, to Prim’s delight, but the woman shakes her head at Peeta. “We don’t need a cat,” she says firmly. “Sorry.”

“Well, petting is free,” he replies good-naturedly, tipping his head back toward the gleeful little boy cuddling his new friends. “But we’re running a special offer this hour only: take home a kitten and the first fill is free.”

He dashes back to hold up the bag of Kitten Chow and the box of Ziploc bags. “How many can I put you down for?” he asks, and the woman laughs heartily.

“You should be in politics,” she tells him. “Or maybe door-to-door sales. Pick _one_ kitten,” she calls to her son, who squeals with triumph and, naturally, attempts to add the other four kittens to his armful.  

“You won’t regret this,” Peeta assures her, tearing open the bag of kibble and pouring a quart bag so full he almost can’t zip it shut.

“If I do, what’s your return policy?” she teases.

“If you’re not satisfied, come back and we’ll give you a 200% refund,” he replies without skipping a beat. “Two new kittens in exchange for the defective one.” He zips the bag shut and brings it to the woman. “Thank you for shopping at Everdeen Enterprises,” he declares, presenting the kibble with a flourish and making her laugh, yet again.

“ _Definitely_ politics,” she decides, and calls to her son, “Eddy, you have five minutes to pick out your kitty while I finish the shopping. I need to buy a litter box,” she adds meaningfully, and Peeta grins. “Can you hold my purchase while I run in?” she asks, handing back the bag of kibble, and he nods emphatically.

“We’ll keep the little guy out of trouble too,” he promises. “If you have any concerns, I’m Peeta Mellark, junior class president, and my parents –”

“I know who you are,” she chuckles. “I’ll be back in a couple, Peeta. Just don’t slip Eddy any C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E,” she whispers distinctly. “He’ll be hyper enough as it is, going home with a new kitten.”

“No danger of that,” Peeta promises, handing the bag to Prim for safekeeping, and the woman disappears into the store.

“We did it!” he crows, lifting me to my feet and spinning me around. “I told you this was going to work!”

“I think you should kiss him for each kitten he gives away,” Prim chimes in nonchalantly, grinning up from her small curly-topped customer, who keeps determinedly trying to hold all six kittens at the same time. “I mean, he _did_ buy you five spendy pounds of Kitten Chow – and bags to put it in.”

“She’s got a kiss credit,” Peeta counters happily. “She kissed my nose like two minutes ago, and really, that’s more than enough to sustain me for days – months, even.”

“One kiss for each kitten,” Prim insists. “Or she can wait and give you the remaining five kisses all at once.”

“I’m going to go sit in the truck,” I inform them both, mortified by this conversation, but Peeta smiles and hugs me so tightly I can’t bear to think about going anywhere else, ever again.

“No kisses unless you want, little bird,” he murmurs against my ear. “Now or ever. Even without the kisses that already happened, this is the best day of my life, Katniss. Spending time with you is _heaven_ , even if you just sit over there and scowl at me for the rest of the hour.”

“That may well be how the afternoon unfolds,” I caution him, and he veritably giggles.

“I love your scowls, little _infanta_ ,” he says. “I just need to find you a Renaissance gown and crown to complete the image.”

“There’s Madrigal coming up,” Prim reminds us. “I told Katniss to go out for Royal Court last year but she wouldn’t do it, even though she has the most beautiful voice in the whole school.”

“Oh heaven!” Peeta moans.

His singing voice is pleasant, if not remarkable, but boys with decent voices are scant in Concert Choir so Peeta was on Royal Court last year, along with his brother and Finnick, and I don’t think he even had to try out. I bristled a little at the performances, hearing some of the female soloists, but I was perfectly content in my beggar’s troupe with Madge and Rue, singing old Christmas carols with a pitch pipe, selling roses, and stealing bread.

“You _have_ to try out, Katniss,” he pleads, squeezing me gently for emphasis. “I wished so badly that you would have last year. Mr. Abernathy would probably make you Queen, even though you’re a junior.

“And you know,” he adds slyly, “Royal Court gets to sit and eat the same big expensive dinner as the audience, only for _free_. It’s like a Renaissance prom for us, really,” he entices, “only you wear comfy slippers instead of heels, the dresses are nice and warm, the boys are the ones in tights, and instead of dancing you give a little concert at the end.”

“That sounds like a perfect date for Katniss, to be honest,” Prim answers for me. “ _And_ she gets to dress like an honest-to-goodness princess? I’ll get her to those tryouts if I have to lock her in the choir room!”

I try to scowl at Peeta but he’s still holding me so warm and close, and the idea of doing Madrigal with him is suddenly, wildly appealing.

“Finn heard they were bringing Rue’s dad on board to update the costumes this year,” he murmurs, never mind I don’t need further encouragement. “He adores you, Katniss, and he’ll make you look like an honest-to-goodness Spanish princess. _Please?_ ”

I peck his nose in a playful nip-kiss. “I’ll _think_ about it,” I concede. “But that assumes I make it in, and I’m not going anywhere _near_ those tryouts if any of the bitchy girls are there. And you still need to move five more kittens in less than an hour –”

“You’re a tough trader, Katniss Everdeen,” he teases. “But as bride-prices go, this one is a steal. You’ll get all that and much, _much_ more before I’m done.”

He kisses my hands before releasing me and I melt back into my seated crouch on the curb. Peeta kneels to help Eddy choose the best kitten in the bunch just in time for his mother’s return – kitty litter, litter box, and scoop in hand – and it’s less than five minutes before another potential shopper approaches, this time a UMC student who can’t get over how much the kittens remind her of her family’s little barn cats back home. I’m convinced she really stopped to see the kittens because she thinks Peeta’s cute, so I’m astonished – and relieved – when her boyfriend shows up a few minutes later and leaves with Pepper and a Ziploc bag of Kitten Chow.

Peeta’s plan is golden, and somehow, with one-third of the supply spoken for, the demand abruptly escalates. Two moms actually end up bickering over the last kitten, both of their daughters having birthday parties that afternoon, and Peeta finally offers a pound of Chippers to whichever mom will relent. I’m stunned when only one does, certain that the offer of hand-dipped chocolate-covered potato chips would be infinitely preferable to a barn kitten that’s nowhere near litter-box-trained, and Peeta jogs back to his car to return with a crisp white Mellark’s box.

“I travel prepared,” he explains with a chuckle, and both mothers depart pleasantly burdened and perfectly happy.

It’s been forty-five minutes since Peeta launched his Kitten Chow campaign and Prim wastes no time in informing us of this fact. “Bonus kiss for finishing ahead of time?” she wheedles, and I shake my head firmly.

“Put it on my tab,” I tell them both, and Peeta beams.

“I really hope you decide to kiss me again someday,” he says, leaning down and lowering his voice so Prim won’t hear. “I’m looking forward to sitting in a chair and grinning like an idiot while you kiss me about thirty times in a row.”

“ _Thirty?_ ” I echo, appalled. “I only owe you, like, _six_!”

“At the moment, maybe,” he concedes. “But I’m going to take such amazing care of you, it’ll be twenty by the end of the night.”

“That might be okay,” I whisper, and he lifts me to my feet with a whoop. “All right, my lovely ladies,” he says. “How about I take Katniss in my car and Prim drives the pickup home?”

“I’m game,” Prim laughs, pulling together the kitten supplies, but I’m not having any of it, even as a joke. “She’s _twelve_ , Peeta,” I remind him needlessly, “and she’s never even backed a car up! I need to drive the truck and you can follow behind.”

“But if I let you out of my sight, you might run away,” he protests, and there’s a flicker of genuine fear beneath the teasing. “I think I know whereabouts you live, but if you were trying to shake me you might never go back there, and I’d be circling the town for months, all bereft, with a bag of cheese and tomatoes and sour cream.”

“Katniss drives like an old lady,” Prim assures him with a giggle, “and if I can’t see you in the rearview anymore, I’ll reach down and poke the brake.”

“You don’t even know which pedal _is_ the brake,” I remind her wryly. “If you try to help you might well hit the gas and lose him for good.”

“There’s no danger of that,” she replies, bundling up the lunch trash. “You severely underestimate how badly I want in-laws who run a candy store.”

“If you’re patient, I might be able to score you an even sweeter deal,” Peeta tells her. “My oldest brother is single as an odd sock, and not only does he directly inherit the business, he’s got the most amazing plans to expand it.”

“Ooh, I like this very much indeed!” she says. “Is your brother cute?”

“As a Clydesdale,” Peeta laughs. “He’s 6’5”, broad as a barn, and even blonder than me, and he cooks like a five-star chef to boot. If you visit over Thanksgiving I can introduce you.”

“That’s all we need: a Prim-crush,” I groan. “Come on, _patita.”_

“No,” she decides impishly. “I’m going to ride to the store with Peeta. That way you can’t run away!”

Peeta laughs. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he wonders. “You’re more than welcome – if it’s okay with Katniss, of course.”

I shake my head but not in refusal. “Saves me five minutes of interrogation,” I reply, and wonder how he’ll fare beneath my sister’s barrage of giddy questions. “Hugo’s or Larson’s?”

He gives me a scandalized look. “Hugo’s, of course,” he replies. “They have the best produce in town, the prettiest deli girl, and my first kiss took place in their parking lot last night. Why on earth would I shop anywhere else?”

And with a bashful smile he takes the trash, the kitten box, and Prim off to his car, leaving me to process the glorious impossibility that my first kiss was his first too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the best of my knowledge, _niñita_ means "little girl" and _patita_ means "little duck" (female).
> 
> I've never had cause to give any of the Hunger Games characters a middle name before now, and that moment all but wrote itself. While I'm not sure whether Laurel is my _headcanon_ middle name for Katniss, it makes a certain amount of sense, at least in my universes.
> 
> And yes, if inspiration continues you'll finally get to meet Finnick, Annie, Luka, and Johanna in this universe, all of whom (fair warning) are pretty squeaky-clean and innocent. (Really. A church youth group and a hayride may be involved.)


End file.
